


in a world so cruel (you were my exception, darlin')

by hellstrider



Series: Long & Lost [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Long & Lost Verse, M/M, Magic, Make up sex, Possessive Behavior, Second First Time, Soft sex, Something!Steve Harrington, Witch!Billy Hargrove, Witchcraft, Witches, bruh, magic sex, my eyes hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21653365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: steve can't take his eyes offa billy.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Long & Lost [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555963
Comments: 21
Kudos: 286





	in a world so cruel (you were my exception, darlin')

**Author's Note:**

> part two of revamped long & lost verse from tumblr!!!!
> 
> tumblr: billyhargrovens
> 
> title from the song don't lose love by quintino, AFSHEEN, feat. cher lloyd

Steve can’t take his eyes offa Billy.

And it’s _been_ like that, like _this_ , since they were seventeen, eighteen,

But it’s _also_ been _five years_ since he's really, properly been able to look at Billy Hargrove,

Five years that Steve _swears_ he spent _asleep_ ,

Just goin’ through the motions,

Pretendin’ he wasn’t some kinda half-dead thing still walkin’,

And Billy’s golden curls tumble just a little past his shoulders now, but there’s still that _one_ , one errant curl that tumbles over his brow, the one Steve was _always_ pushin’ back, catching between his knuckles, dusting away from those blue, _blue_ eyes, and,

Billy’s hair is pulled into a ponytail, mussy and _perfect,_ and he’s all tatted golden skin and runed knuckles, and his tongue’s pierced, now, and he’s got a Celtic cross dangling from his left earlobe,

And Steve can’t take his eyes offa him, as Billy makes ‘em coffee in the kitchen of his tiny studio apartment _, and,_

There’re bundles of lavender over the windows and everything smells like clove and incense, and there are rope-bound stones at the foot of Billy’s bed, just a mattress on the floor, and the apartment is _brand fuckin’ new_ , ‘cause Billy’s spent these last five years scraping together whatever warmth he could outta stayin’ at Hop’s cabin,

Because Steve _left,_ took all the sunlight with him, and he _knows it_ , knows that,

And Billy’s in a tiny studio apartment and sleeps on a mattress on the damn floor like he doesn’t care where he’s puttin’ his head at night, and there’s a circle burnt onto the back of his front door, one surrounded by runes and sigils Steve doesn’t know, and,

Billy’s a fuckin’ _witch,_

Had made the lights at the Hawkins Grange dance like a Demogorgon was comin’ through the walls, but Steve had been _surrounded_ by somethin’ that felt – felt so _safe_ , so _protective_ , so, so _fierce,_ so –

_Billy,_

And,

Steve watches as Billy makes ‘em coffee in the tiny, cramped kitchen, and there’s a broom hanging on the wall, all raw wooden handle and neat, soft straw bristles, and the handle’s carved with more runes, and Steve _knows_ Billy’s hands worked that wood themselves,

And Billy’s stripped outta his jacket, outta his half-buttoned shirt, is all golden skin wrapped around hard-won muscle, and he’s tatted up and leaking _magic_ , which is _real_ , and the only way Steve thinks he could be convinced _magic_ was _fuckin’ real_ was if it was drippin’ outta _Billy Hargrove,_

Who’s been Steve’s _real magic kinda thing_ since they were seventeen, eighteen,

But –

 _You thought this_ shit meant anything _, Harrington?_

And,

_You couldn’t tell me you loved me without being fuckin’ drunk,_

And,

Steve had run _away_ from those runed hands,

Because he’d _always_ wondered when Billy’s blue eyes would turn _away_ , find somethin’, _someone_ better than Steve Harrington, who didn’t know who he really _was_ , who always kinda felt lost in the woods _, had,_ since he was a kid who couldn’t seem to keep his eyes on his schoolwork and away from the way the trees swayed in the autumn wind outside his window,

Who fought monsters with faces that bloomed like flowers in junkyards with a spiked bat,

Who drove _too slow,_

Who wasn’t _wild enough,_

Who was just,

_Steve,_

But,

_Here they are,_

In Billy’s tiny studio, the new one, the one he got just to say he did, ‘cause Steve _knows_ Billy feels _guilty_ , stayin’ so long with Hop, and it _hurts,_ hurts to know that without hearin’ it, ‘cause Steve’s been gone _five years_ , too chickenshit to come back and risk findin’ out that Billy Hargrove _really,_ truly _did_ hate him,

But Steve _knows_ Billy Hargrove better than _anyone,_

Which is why magic _makes sense,_

‘Cause he knows the _only_ way he could ever buy magic being real is if it came drippin’ outta _Billy fucking Hargrove,_

Which is why Steve _knows_ Billy felt _guilty_ without havin’ to hear it, why Billy left the only warm place he had since Steve took all the sunlight outta his life,

Because Steve Harrington knows Billy Hargrove better than he knows his own heart,

And,

He can’t take his eyes offa Billy, as Billy pours ‘em coffee, coffee Steve doesn’t want, coffee he knows Billy made just to do somethin’ with those brutal hands, brutal hands gone _so_ gentle, and Steve’s leaning against one of the windows with the bundles of lavender hangin’ over it _, and,_

“You’re _cryin’_ , Bambi,” Billy says quietly as he nears, deep voice like the moon pulling at the shattered tide of Steve’s heart,

And the runes on his knuckles aren’t black, but a deep, _deep_ blue, and a gentle, calloused thumb runs over one of Steve’s cheekbones, smears a tear into his skin, and the hot coffee Billy presses into his palm hasn’t got _anythin’_ on the warmth Billy Hargrove radiates,

And,

He _can’t take his eyes offa Billy,_

‘Cause it’s been _five years_ and Steve was the one who _left_ , left this golden thing in the _dark,_ and Steve’s chest is packed with cotton and shadows when he gingerly takes Billy’s mug, sets ‘em both on the little table beside the window,

And Billy’s blue eyes gleam like starlight when Steve gets brave, gets brave and touches him, and he can’t believe this is real, can barely breathe as he molds careful, unworthy hands around Billy’s stubbled jaw, and,

It’s been _five years,_

And Steve mighta been so long lost across the plains,

But he never lost love,

Never stopped _aching,_

Never stopped beggin’ any entity that would listen to give him the courage Billy always inspired in him,

The courage that made Steve feel as if he could rip through the earth if he needed to, all for the love of one Billy Hargrove,

The courage to come _home,_

And by some goddamn _miracle,_ he'd found it, and then Steve was beggin’ _Billy Hargrove_ instead’a any god that would listen, _beggin’_ him to -

_Tell me it’s not too late, Billy,_

_Tell me it’s not too late to come home,_

And Steve Harrington _never_ stopped loving that gold-laced heart, _never_ stopped _wanting_ Billy Hargrove, _never_ longed for _anything_ the way he longed for those blue, _blue_ eyes, those brutal hands gone _so_ gentle, and Steve feels truly _alive_ for the first time in five years that felt like a hundred as he cups Billy’s face between hands that’ve been so empty, for so long,

And Steve _knows_ he sounds like broken glass when he says, “you’re _so_ fucking _beautiful_ , Billy, you know that?” and,

Billy’s chest jumps, and there’s a spiky _S_ markin’ the _X_ of his heart, and Steve’s _gonna fuckin’_ – he’d _lost it_ , at the Grange, and he’s gonna lose it _again_ , ‘cause Billy had taken him home, back to the tiny apartment he’d gotten ‘cause he felt guilty, and Billy had driven _too fast_ , kept a runed hand on Steve’s thigh, and for a moment, it was almost like they _hadn’t_ been broken for _five fucking years_ that felt like a _hundred_ , half-dead and so long lost,

And Steve doesn’t wait for Billy to say anything, _can’t,_ and Steve’s fully aware the sound he lets out is that _dyin’-in-the-forest-in-your-arms_ kinda shit as he surges forwards, and it’s a damn miracle they didn’t just, strip each other apart in the middle of the goddamn Hawkins Grange,

Because Steve kisses Billy with all the fear and the dust lingering on his tongue, ‘cause he’s been _half-dead_ , and Billy’s hands slide over Steve’s sides, fingers gently tugging his shirt outta his slacks, and then those calloused palms meet Steve’s skin for the first time in five years, and Steve’s being coaxed _right_ back to life,

As,

Billy pushes air from his lungs into Steve’s,

As,

Billy snakes a bare, tattooed arm around Steve’s waist,

As,

Billy draws him close, so close there's no room for _doubt_ between 'em,

As,

Billy’s tongue slides right under Steve’s own, and Steve doesn’t think he’s been tastin’ _shit_ , not for _years_ , not until he’s tasting _Billy_ again, all mint and smoke and somethin’ like the way lightning _looks_ , and,

There’s saltwater,

Because Billy’s blue eyes are spilling diamonds while Steve cries ash, and Steve’s damn _heart_ is in his _throat_ and _then_ \- and _then_ Billy’s takin’ a step back with an arm like iron around Steve’s waist, and he’s takin’ a step towards that bed on the floor, the bed he falls into without carin’ _how_ he falls, and Steve’s hard in his slacks but he _doesn’t_ – doesn’t _give a shit_ , because all he _wants_ , all he _needs_ , is –

 _“Tell me_ ,” Steve whispers, and the words come out _sideways_ , and Billy surges against him, catches ‘em on his pierced tongue, and he kisses Steve with those blue eyes open, “tell me it’s _not too late_ –“

And,

“Could be the end of my _stupid life_ , Stevie,” Billy rasps, deep voice like a punch to the gut, “and it wouldn’t _ever_ be too late, not for _you_ ,” and,

A harsh, _grating_ sob tears up through Steve’s throat, tastes like copper when it spills over his tongue, and then Billy’s shushing him, shushing him so gentle as diamonds roll down his cheeks and a smile curves his lips, as a furrow knits his brow _, and,_

Then they’re falling to the bed that’s been half empty for too long,

And Steve _knows_ his hands are _desperate_ when they pull at Billy, pull at that golden skin, all tatted up with color and knots and branches of spindly trees, with laughing skulls and faces fulla leaves, _and,_

There’s a spiky _S_ on Billy’s chest, right over the _X_ of his heart, and Steve presses his palm to it, wishes he could dig through that muscle, those steel-coated bones, wishes he could feel the surface of that gold-laced heart, wishes he could put his lips to it,

But he _can’t,_

So he puts his mouth to Billy’s instead, steals the stardust breaths Billy so _willingly_ gives, and Billy’s strong and _real_ over him, and he’s _all magic_ , is _weeping_ it, and Steve can _feel it_ , knows magic is fucking _real_ , now, _all because_ it’s drippin’ outta _Billy Hargrove_ , who’s been the _only_ real magic in Steve’s life from the _jump,_

And,

“Always looked so fuckin’ _pretty_ when you cried, Bambi,” Billy murmurs, right against Steve’s ear, and he sounds wrecked, strung-out, and Steve’s a fuckin’ ugly-ass crier, but Billy kisses his cheeks and his aching eyes, kisses his jaw, his throat, and Steve believes him when he says, “always cried _so fuckin’ pretty_ for me,” and,

No one’s _ever_ talked to him the way Billy Hargrove does, and,

No one’s _ever_ touched him the way Billy Hargrove does,

Magic in his fingertips,

Devotion moving Steve to the edge of becomin’ _somethin’ else,_

Love like gold on his tongue,

And,

Steve _doesn’t deserve him_ ,

But he’s _broken_ without him,

And maybe that’s _fucked up,_

But _that’s_ – that’s alright,

Because they’ve both got scars from takin’ hits meant for each other, both got scars from a silent little war fought through their teen years in the Hawkins woods,

A war that didn’t have _shit_ on the way Steve fought against his own fear while he was so long lost,

And Steve’s been fighting so long,

And Billy’s been fighting longer,

So maybe it’s okay that they’re broken without each other, because if that’s the thing that saves ‘em, it can’t be fucked up, and Billy’s saved Steve so many goddamn times, is savin’ him again, right fuckin’ now,

As he cages Steve down to his bed,

As he unbuttons Steve’s shirt nice and slow, like he’s unwrapping a divine thing, and those lips slide down the slope of Steve’s neck and he feels touch-starved, feral, as Billy’s hands coax life right back into his rotten, Upside-Down bones, _and,_

Billy sheds tears over Steve as he puts his mouth to Steve’s chest, right over his heart,

And it’s the finest baptism Steve thinks he could ever have,

And he doesn’t _deserve_ it,

But he won’t _let this go_ ,

Will hold on so long as Billy _lets him_ ,

Will take _anything_ Billy deigns to _give him,_

And right now, it’s –

 _Gentle_ , scarred, tattooed, _magic-tipped_ hands roving over Steve’s skin, over skin that hasn’t felt shit in five years, no matter how hard Steve let faceless people fuck him,

And he –

He _let people –_

Let _other hands_ touch him,

Let other bodies into his hollow bed,

Let other people try and talk to him the way Billy does,

Let other people try to _love him_ the way Billy did,

_Does,_

And,

“ _Breathe_ , Bambi,” Billy whispers raggedly against Steve’s ear, and _they’re_ \- they’re just, just _pressed_ together, both hard in their slacks, and Billy’s peelin’ Steve outta his shirt like they’ve got _eternity_ for this, and maybe they _do,_

But Billy sounds like he’s about to spit out glass when he says, “ _breathe,_ baby, I’m _right here_ ,” and Steve’s chest hitches and he buries a soft sob against Billy’s jaw,

Buries an aching, “I’m _so fucking sorry,_ Billy,” against his throat, and Billy slides an arm around his waist, tries to turn ‘em on their sides, but then Steve’s _begging_ , “no, _don’t stop_ , Jesus – _please,_ Billy, I _need –_ fuck, _I need you_ , I need you _so bad,_ please,” and,

“You’re a _mess_ , Bambi,”

But,

“ _Have been_ ,” Steve groans, and Billy’s lips ghost over his own, hand sliding over his hair, pushing it back, and Steve clutches at Billy’s hips with his thighs, listens to the sweet little moan that rolls through Billy’s chest, revels in it, “was a _mess_ without _you,”_

And,

“I’m _right here_ ,” Billy says, rough, fierce; “I’ve _got you,_ Stevie, gotta let yourself _believe it_ , gotta let yourself _feel me_ ,” 

And,

“Been pretending _everyone else_ was _you_ for so long,” Steve manages, because he needs to – confess, to Billy, who’s baptizing him with his tears, who’s touching him like he’s somethin’ divine, who looks at Steve like Steve is the sole thing for which the earth turns,

And,

Billy makes a sound like he’s gonna _die,_ burns it right against Steve’s throat, and Steve’s chest spikes with _guilt,_ with _grief,_ with _shame_ , and he might _drown_ in it, might just, fall to _ash_ , right here, on the bed Billy falls into without carin’ how he does,

But then;

“Don’t need to _pretend_ anymore, Bambi,” and,

“Never gonna let you go _again_ ,” and,

“Not if you don’t want me to,”

And,

Steve wants Billy to paint himself over his bones, wants his name branded right, right over his heart, like Billy’s got the S that has the X that marks the spot, and Billy touches Steve with possessive, desperate, devoted hands, and,

“Woulda been tryin’a find better hands to touch me if I were _you_ , too, Stevie,” Billy murmurs, and Steve’s heart writhes, writhes and tries to climb outta his damn mouth, because –

“There’s fucking _no one_ ,” he says, and the _fight_ comes through Steve’s voice now, the fight they’ve been chewing through since they were seventeen, eighteen, and Billy tips back to look at him, and those blue eyes are red and so fuckin’ _raw_ , and Steve _swears,_ swears like a savage and slides a hand into Billy’s curls, drags him down for a biting, _searing_ kiss,

The kinda kiss he hasn’t felt since he lost Billy Hargrove,

The kinda kiss that could make Steve’s blood run backwards,

The kinda kiss that _rips_ the unsure, fragile boundary hovering between their bruised hearts _away,_

And then Billy _moans_ against Steve’s tongue, breathes, “ _baby,”_ and it - it sounds like he’s comin’ apart _already,_

And Billy’s hand _finally_ tugs frantically at Steve’s belt, and his breaths are _ragged,_ batter against Steve’s teeth as Steve pulls the elastic outta those golden curls, as he sinks desperate, clinging fingers through ‘em, and they feel the way Steve remembers, soft and thick, 

And Steve says, _viciously_ , violently, _bullets_ sliding over his tongue, “there’s _no one_ better than you, fuckin’ _no one_ , not for _me_ ,” and,

Billy –

_Billy’s –_

“You’re _shakin’_ , baby,” Steve says _, tight,_ so _tight_ , and Billy spits out a _harsh_ , wet laugh, because,

_You’re shakin’, baby,_

Said so _softly_ , so _sweetly,_

Just like their first time,

Back in Steve’s childhood bedroom,

When Billy had been shaking between Steve’s thighs, shaking just like he is now,

When Steve had _found out –_

“Hasn’t been _anyone,”_ Billy says, sounding _wretched_ with it; “ _not since_ –“

And it makes Steve feel _horrible_ and _beautiful_ and kept, _claimed;_ it makes him bite his lip until it hurts, until he tastes copper, and Steve slides an arm around Billy’s neck, noses up against his cheek and breathes _hard_ , breathes _fast,_ because otherwise he might not breathe _at all_ ,

And Billy’s _panting_ , soft and _quiet,_ and he’s _shaking_ , shaking as his hands shove Steve’s slacks down, _and,_

The lamp in the corner flickers when Steve tugs at Billy’s belt, and suddenly, _suddenly,_ there’s no time in the world, none at _all_ , and Steve’s kissing Billy like the bombs are about to drop as he yanks Billy’s belt outta his slacks, and Billy groans, “ _Steve,”_ and _that’s_ – that’s _it_ , that’s the end of Steve’s patience, _just,_

A desperate,

_Battered,_

So long lost,

 _Steve_ ,

And,

 _“Need you,”_ Steve pants, lips sticky and slick against Billy’s, and Billy kicks outta his slacks and then there’s fuckin’ _nothin_ ’ between ‘em, and the air’s starting to feel the way it does after a thunderstorm, and it’s _all,_ all _Billy;_ “need you _so fucking bad_ , needed you for _five years_ , never shoulda _left you_ ,” and,

There aren’t _any words_ , in _any language_ – there’s _no fucking way_ to _explain_ how it feels to have Billy’s skin gliding across his own, fire-warm and velvet-soft except where the story of how many times he’s saved Steve Harrington is written across him in streaks of gnarled scars, and Steve traces _all of ‘em_ with trembling fingertips that _never_ forgot the love Steve wouldn’t let go of,

And he _never_ forgot the pattern of needle-like teeth on Billy’s ribs, the puckered bullet wound on his hip, the horrible gash across his back, the one he thought mighta been the last hit Billy Hargrove would ever take for one Steve Harrington,

 _Never_ forgot how it felt to have Billy Hargrove touch him like he was some kinda holy, and when Billy moves to reach for the nightstand, Steve drags his hands down his sides, ghosts taunting fingertips under the heavy curve of Billy’s hard, weeping cock, and Billy _swears_ as the lamp goes out entirely and the nightstand drawer _slams_ shut with a _crack,_

And,

Billy’s eyes are ringed in _gold_ when he looks down at Steve, looks down at him with some kinda _agony_ writ across his face, some kinda _longing_ , some kinda _yearning_ , and Steve can’t _breathe_ even as he gulps down air, and he’s crying proper again when Billy traces his lip with a shaking thumb and says, all _tight_ , all _tear-soaked,_ “you didn’t _leave me_ , Bambi, ‘cause I _kept you_ right, _right here_ , right –“ _and,_

Billy guides Steve’s clenched fist to his chest, right over the _S,_ right over the _X_ of his heart, and Steve _sobs,_ hates the way it tastes like blood, like dust, and he hates the way Billy drinks down the sound like he _deserves_ to taste the copper, _deserves_ to be _punished_ by the way Steve cries, when it was _Steve_ who _left,_ and Billy had said, _woulda been tryin’a find better hands to touch me if I were you, too_ , and,

_He’s literally,_

Coming apart,

_Losing it,_

As Billy slides a shaking, slick hand between the thighs that Billy has to gentle away from his hips, ‘cause they’re clingin’ _so_ hard, _too_ hard, and he gentles ‘em apart with a crooning, tattered, “got you, baby, _c’mon_ , lemme _touch you_ , lemme make it _right,”_ and Steve lets Billy spread him open,

‘Cause then Billy’s pushin’ a slick finger into him, and Steve _moans_ like he hasn’t been _touched_ in _five fucking years_ , five years that felt like a _hundred,_

And _Billy_ – Billy _hasn’t,_ hasn’t _let anyone touch him_ , hasn’t gentled _anyone else_ open, hasn’t put that wicked tongue to _any other pulse_ but _Steve’s,_ and it makes Steve wanna fall to his _knees_ even though he’s lyin’ down, makes him wanna _scream_ , makes him wanna swing the spiked bat into a thing with a face that blooms like flower petals, and,

Steve’s _falling apart_ as Billy croons at him, and Billy's shedding tears in the holiest kinda baptism over Steve, and Steve's _falling apart_ as Billy rubs gentle fingertips over that little bundle of nerves inside him that makes him see _stars,_ and Billy’s the _only one who touches him like this_ , shoulda been the _last_ one to touch him like this,

But now he _will be_ ,

And that’s what _matters,_

And Steve got _brave enough_ to _come home,_

Got brave enough to _face it_ , if Billy’s gold-laced heart had turned to _ice_ when it came to _one Steve Harrington,_

But instead -

Instead, it had _reached out,_ reached out when Billy said, _dance with me, Stevie, c'mon,_ and,

And Steve’s been _numb_ for _five years,_

Until that gold-laced heart hushed the hurricane of his own, _gentled_ it, _forgave_ it for running, _and,_

Billy breathes, “ _Steve,”_ against Steve’s lips, and then they’re kissing like the bombs are gonna drop and Steve gathers Billy’s golden curls up, gathers ‘em away from his face, crests his hips as Billy sinks a third finger into the clutch of his muscle, as he rubs so _sweet_ and so _soft_ against his prostate, _and then_ \- and then, Steve’s _groaning,_ panting, “that’s _enough_ , tiger, wanna _feel you,_ wanna _hurt_ , wanna feel that cock for a _week,_ c’mon,” and,

It’s been _five years,_

And the lamp’s out, and the apartment is all dewy moonlight, but as Billy lets out a _gut-punched_ kinda sound and slicks himself up, as he starts to sink into Steve for the first time in the five years that felt like a _hundred,_

Billy’s _hands –_

Start _to,_

To,

_Glow,_

Like he’s got _embers_ packed under his skin,

Like he’s _barely_ keepin’ fire from licking over the sheets,

And Steve’s absolutely _awestruck_ , as Billy’s hands grip his own, as Billy tangles their fingers together, pins Steve to the mattress, _and -_

 _Firelight_ shines from between their laced knuckles, soft and gold-orange, and Billy’s eyes are drippin’ _tears_ and the _rest of him_ is drippin’ _magic_ and Steve could only ever believe in magic if it comes outta _one Billy Hargrove,_

And,

“Your _eyes,”_ Steve breathes, and he can feel Billy in his _throat_ , feels him – feels him _everywhere_ , everywhere, and Billy’s eyes _burn_ gold as he _buries_ himself in Steve, and Steve’s been numb for _years_ , no matter how hard he let people fuck him, but he feels Billy in his fucking _throat_ , in his _bones_ , in his _blood_ , and, _“baby_ , your _eyes –“_

“It’s _you_ ,” Billy groans, and he rolls his hips, and Steve feels the fire _whip_ through him, feels it _rip_ , possessive and _devoted_ , right up his spine, “it’s _all_ for you,” and,

“You _scared_ of me, Stevie?”

And,

Steve _laughs_ , sobs, _moans,_ all at once, and he doesn’t know if this fever is gonna kill him, but it feels like it _might,_ and Billy’s _so big_ , fills him _so fucking well,_ and Steve’s thighs shake as he presses ‘em against Billy’s hips, as he squeezes Billy’s glowing hands like he might disappear if he doesn’t hold _tight_ enough, _and,_

“It _would_ be f-fire,”

_And,_

Billy buries a _broken_ laugh against Steve’s throat, and then he rolls his hips, rolls his hips like he’s _barely_ holding himself back, and Steve _wants_ him to snap, wants him to fuck him the way he used to, when they were both so _stupid_ in love and _terrified_ of losin' it, just like _Steve still fuckin' is,_

He wants Billy fuckin’ him like he’s tryina paint himself over Steve’s _bones,_

Wants Billy fucking him with all the fire Steve _knows_ is locked up _tight_ inside that gold-laced heart,

So,

 _“C’mon_ tiger,” Steve pants against his jaw, “c’mon, been pretending _everyone else_ was _you,_ closed my eyes and _all_ I saw was you, _only you,_ ” and,

Steve’s the only one in the _world_ that could play with Billy’s fire like this,

The only one in the world that can _say shit_ like _been pretending everyone else was you_ and not fear the fallout,

Because Steve Harrington’s been bathing in Billy Hargrove’s fire since they were seventeen, eighteen,

And,

Billy _growls_ right against Steve’s ear, a sound that would promise violence if it were anyone else, but here, with Steve - his hips _stutter_ , snap, and Steve’s stomach launches up between his lungs as heat sears up over his ribs, as pressure starts to gather up at the base of his spine, at the back of his throat, and Steve turns his head, noses over Billy’s cheek, licks at his mouth until Billy’s fucking into his with his tongue, and,

He wants this to _hurt,_

Wants it to _burn_ ,

Because Steve’s been _fuckin’ numb_ for five years,

And every other hand he’s let fall over his skin has only made Steve _colder,_

While Billy’s hands have been learning to hold fire,

And it’s the kinda fire that can urge life back through Steve Harrington’s frozen bones,

So when Billy starts to fuck into him with absolutely _brutal_ , punishing thrusts, starts to let the fire _out_ , Steve arches _up_ , spine bending _just right,_ and he sobs, _“fuck yeah_ , fuck, _just like that,_ tiger, just like that, _don’t stop_ ,” and the sound Billy lets out is _entirely_ feral,

And the firelight glows brighter, _brighter,_

And then Billy’s letting go of Steve’s hands, is growling, “ _hold onto me_ , Bambi,” and Steve _does_ , slides his arms around Billy’s shoulders, and then Billy’s hauling Steve up, over his thighs, into his lap, and Steve can’t even make a _sound_ , so _breathless_ with how _deep_ Billy is buried inside him like this, and,

That fire starts to come offa Billy’s tongue, _drips_ from his lips as he spits shit like,

“Gonna _keep_ you _right_ this time, Harrington, _never_ lettin’ you go _again_ ,” and,

“I’d _follow you,_ find you, if you _left,_ left _me_ again,” and,

“You’re _mine_ , you _hear me_ Harrington, _always mine_ , even when you _can’t fuckin’ see me,”_ and,

Steve’s cock is _oozing_ pre, jumps with each possessive, _biting_ thing Billy lets drip from that golden tongue, and Steve’s still panting around absolutely _shattered_ sobs as Billy fucks up into him, as he keeps Steve pressed _so close_ , an arm like iron around his waist,

And Billy’s nose is furled into a _sneer_ , his eyes still spillin’ diamonds, and he looks at Steve like he’s the thing that makes the earth turn, looks at him with the anger that Steve knows will come out, and they’ll have a fight that’ll threaten to rip ‘em _apart,_ but Steve’s resolved already that he’ll never be forced out, not again, not by _anythin_ ’, and he holds onto Billy with that promise, kisses his snarling mouth with it cupped on his tongue, _and_ ,

Steve’s words are _meaningless_ right now, _meaningless_ to Billy, ‘cause Steve’s the one who left, who let _other people_ try and fuck him like Billy does,

But Steve lets ‘em come out anyways,

Says,

“Not letting you chase me away again, Hargrove, never runnin’ away again,” and,

“We’re gonna _fight,_ and you’re gonna look at me like you _hate_ me, and I’m gonna let you _fuck me through it_ ,” and,

“I _never_ stopped _loving you_ , I love you, I _love_ you so much, _never_ gonna let you go,” and,

Billy’s eyes are _gold,_

And his hands burn like _firelight_ as they touch Steve like he’s some kinda holy thing, the holy thing he prays to, the holy thing he begs mercy from, the holy thing he curses for all the ways he’s broken Billy open, and,

Fire is –

_Fire is,_

It’s,

 _Bleeding_ outta Billy, and Steve can _feel it,_ can feel the _heave_ of Billy’s magic as it comes to life around them, as it surrounds them, velvet-soft, gentle-warm, and Steve’s gasp kinda chokes him, ‘cause it comes on a sob, and Billy’s face is some kinda agonized, his blue eyes gone so gold, and Steve cups that agonized, precious face between shaking hands and kisses Billy with the promise of _I’m here_ on his tongue,

And Steve still remembers when he saw Billy for the first time after four and a half years, grainy on an iPhone screen,

Remembers he’d been dating someone he doesn’t remember the name of,

Remembers the way Billy’s face had been this kinda agonized then, when the faceless, nameless person Steve had been pretending was Billy Hargrove had said something, something Steve only heard because Billy had,

And his face had been this kinda agonized then,

And Steve had been _helpless,_ helpless to fixin’ him, because Billy Hargrove _was_ , is, always _will be_ Steve’s to _fix_ , to _protect_ , and he’d been _helpless_ , so fucking helpless,

But now he’s _not,_

And Billy’s fucking into him in the kinda way he’ll feel for a week, and they’re – surrounded by fire, and it’s fire that _bleeds_ outta Billy’s gold-strapped soul, the soul Steve wishes he could hold in his arms, wishes he could tuck behind his ribs, and,

He’s not helpless, this time,

So, _this time_ ,

Steve kisses the agony offa Billy’s tongue, drinks it down, takes it _back_ , ‘cause Steve’s the one that put it in him in the _first place_ , so he coaxes it outta Billy with gentle sweeps of a penitent tongue, because while Billy touches Steve like he’s some kinda holy, Steve knows that the only reason he’s any kinda divine at all is because Billy Hargrove deigned to see him that way,

And,

They’re surrounded by white, gleaming fire, fire that doesn’t burn, and Steve woulda walked through fields of hellfire just to reach these arms, and maybe – maybe he _had_ , and that’s why the fire doesn’t burn him, ‘cause Steve’s already walked through the worst of it,

And Billy starts to gentle under him, lets out a soft, keening moan against Steve’s tongue, and then there’s a _possessive_ , brutal hand curling so sweet through Steve’s hair, and Billy tilts his head, and the kiss goes from agonized to something so heart-wrenching Steve thinks it might be rewriting the method by which his soul exists, and,

Billy’s always been rewriting the way Steve Harrington exists,

Because he’s been carvin’ somethin’ holy outta Steve since they were seventeen, eighteen, just with the way he touches Steve, in the way he loves him,

And Steve can feel it,

Feels it in the weight of Billy’s _devotion_ ,

In the invisible scars of the chasm slowly closing between them,

And Steve woulda fought through the _entire Upside-Down_ for this,

And when Billy pushes him back to the sheets, the fire-licked sheets, Steve catches one of Billy’s hands, his ember-lit hand, tangles their fingers together and breathes in the smoke from Billy’s lungs, and he’s so fuckin’ _hard_ , so hard it hurts, and he’s full to the brim with _heat_ , but he doesn’t _ever_ want this to end,

Even as he says, pants, “ _that’s it_ , tiger, _God_ , you feel _so fucking good_ , I _missed_ you _so fucking much_ , thought I was _dead_ , I thought I was _dead_ without you,” and,

“Maybe I _was_ , fuck, baby, _harder,_ wanna feel you in my _teeth_ ,” and then,

It just,

_Comes out,_

Hurts like he’s been shot, ‘cause Steve’s taken a bullet for Billy, and Billy’s taken one for Steve, so it hurts like a bullet comin’ out,

And,

What comes _out_ is;

“Hope you still _want_ me,” Steve breathes, and his soul hurts, burns, and Billy buries a furious, sobbing, _“Steve,”_ against his throat, and he sounds like he’s been _shot,_ ‘cause Billy knows what that feels like, too, and then Steve’s bleeding out, bleeding out shit like,

“ _You’re_ home, Billy, took me _all that time_ to figure that out, so tell me it’s _not too late_ , baby, not too late, tell me you _want me_ , tell me, _tell me,”_

And,

He’s cryin’ _proper,_

And Billy’s thrusts are _changing,_

And the fire’s _gold,_

As Billy stops _fucking him,_

Starts forging _love_ between ‘em instead,

_Sweet,_

Soft,

 _Gentle,_  
And Steve’s crying proper, and Billy had said _could be at the end of my stupid life and it wouldn’t be too late_ but,

It’s gonna take a while for Steve to _believe it_ ,

‘Cause he’s the false little divine thing that Billy worships like he’s really holy, and he’s the divine thing that Billy curses for the ways Steve’s _ruined_ him, and,

 _“Shh_ , Bambi,” and Billy’s voice _sounds_ the way the fire _looks_ , “ _hold onto me_ , baby, know I’m not gonna let you go, would hunt you _down_ , hold ont’a me, Stevie, _c’mon_ ,” and,

It’s a _little fucked up,_

But the way Billy says _would hunt you down_ makes Steve’s cock _throb_ and his stomach clench, and he moans, head falling back, and Billy puts his savage teeth to the column of his throat, and they’re - they’re gonna _fight_ , later, and Steve can _feel it coming,_ feels it like the magic licking at his skin, but he’s gonna let Billy fuck him through it, gonna let him sink back into his bruised body and fuck him while they’re fighting like they’re gonna splinter, _but,_

They’re not whole unless they’re _together,_

And Billy’s fire brings Steve’s bones back to life, urges his heart to shake off the dust, urges his soul to unfurl from its tight, _tight_ fetal clutch,

And he’ll _take_ Billy’s _agony_ , his _ire_ , his _pain,_

Take _all of it back,_

‘Cause _Steve’_ s the one who _put it there,_

Which isn’t _fair_ ,

Because outta the pair of ‘em, Steve thinks Billy’s really the _only holy thing,_

‘Cause Billy Hargrove is _all_ devotion, _all_ fire, _all_ gold-laced heart _, all_ steel bones; because Billy Hargrove is a man with a body marked by the times he’s become a shield between Steve and the rest of the world, a man with a soul that bleeds fire, a man with eyes that go from sea-blue to sun-gold,

So how could he _not be?_ How could he _not_ be a holy thing?

And, so overwhelmed, so moved to _faith,_ Steve chokes on a soft, aching “ _Billy_ ,” as he cups that face between trembling hands, as he lifts his chin, silently pleads for a kiss, and Billy’s pierced tongue unfurls so soft and sweet into Steve’s mouth, like he’s worthy of that kinda shit, after leaving Billy so cold for so long,

But Billy kisses him like Steve was worth the pain,

Like he loved to bleed for him,

And they’re both falling apart as their bodies start to get as desperate as their hearts, and Steve’s cock _aches_ , burns, and when Billy _finally_ curls a calloused hand around him, it _hurts,_ hurts so bad that Steve cries out, and Billy croons a broken, “it’s alright, baby, you’re so good, doing so good, being so good,” and the praise _drips_ down Steve’s spine, liquid gold, and,

The pressure at the base _crumbles_ when Billy puts his teeth to Steve’s ear, when Billy strokes him, _gentle,_ so _gentle_ , and says, “ _I love you_ , Bambi,” like he’s uttering a _hymn,_ and,

Steve cums with a _violent,_ wracking keen, the kinda shit that he mighta let out in the middle of a silent little war in the middle of the Hawkins forest with the Upside-Down, and Billy hushes him, hushes him with a voice stripped bare, and then his hips snap and Steve _feels it_ , when Billy empties himself between his thighs, proof of life that burns like the fire doesn’t,

And,

That fire slowly,

 _Slowly_ starts to simmer from gold,

To white,

To blue,

To _orange_ ,

And then everything is _dewy,_ early dawn; Billy’s _shaking_ , again, breathing hard and heavy against Steve’s throat, and nothin’ outside of the realm of Billy’s arms exists, _nothin’_ , not even the _goddamn Upside-Down,_

And they’re both _drippin’_ in sweat, but Steve drags his lips over Billy’s temple regardless, catches the desperation he’s bled out on the tip of his tongue, and Steve feels so, _so_ beautifully _heavy_ as he threads exhausted fingers through Billy’s damp curls, as he tangles their legs together and coaxes Billy’s full weight to settle over him with _pleading_ but steady hands, and,

It’s been five years since Steve’s afterglow was compressed into diamonds by the weight of Billy Hargrove over him, and his eyes are stinging, _raw,_ so _tired,_ but they’re _still_ leaking tears, even if Steve’s not sobbin’ anymore, as he drags sticky, sore lips over Billy’s cheek, runs his hands over Billy’s damp back, revels in the way Billy rumbles in his chest, the sound vibrating down to Steve’s core,

_And,_

They’ll _fight_ later,

And Billy will fuck Steve like he hates him through it,

But _for now,_

For now,

 _“Always_ so good for me,” Billy grumbles against Steve’s ear, and it shoots _right_ down to Steve’s sore dick, “ _still_ good for me, Bambi, you _know_ I love you, even when I think I _hate_ you,” and,

That’s the third time in the span of twelve hours that Billy’s told Steve he loves him, and he’s been _sober_ , sober as the _dead,_ and he’s sayin’ _I love you_ like it hasn’t been _five years_ , five years that felt like a _hundred,_

And Steve’s heart is in his _throat_ and his stomach’s in his _lungs_ and his lungs are just, _gone,_ when he wraps his arms around Billy and Billy slides an ember-bright palm over Steve’s ribs, _possessive,_ protective, _devoted_ , and,

“ _You’re_ home, tiger,” Steve rasps, voice sob-hoarse, salt-ruined, and Billy tips back to look at him, and Billy looks at him like he’s the thing that makes the earth spin, and Steve _aches_ , longs for the _impossible dream_ of his soul sliding out to touch Billy’s, and,

“Can’t chase me out again,” and,

“Won’t _let you_ , baby,” and,

 _“Tell me_ ,” Steve murmurs, all dewy moonlight on his tongue as his fingertips splay over Billy’s lips, and Billy noses down into his palm, kisses his way down Steve’s wrist, “tell me it’s not too late, Billy,”

And,

“Could be _dyin’ in the fuckin’ woods_ , Bambi,” Billy says quietly, and Steve molds his palm to Billy’s cheek when those blue, _blue_ eyes find his own, “and it would _never_ be too late, not when it comes to _you,”_

And every part of that fuckin’ sentence is an _I love you_ , and Steve swallows hard, thumbs over Billy’s jaw, and when Billy kisses him, slow and _deep_ and _so fucking_ – just, _stupidly devoted_ , Steve _swears,_ swears that, _just for a moment,_ his long and lost soul unfurls and reaches out to touch Billy’s,

And it _feels –_

Feels like _fire,_

**Author's Note:**

> songs:  
> don't lose love - quintino, AFSHEEN, cher lloyd  
> from the grave - james arthur  
> belle - r3hab


End file.
